


We All Have to Sleep at Night

by Sweetloot



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Character Study, I am not over this episode not even a little bit, Mayfeld centric, Mayfeld is foul mouthed we all know it, Mayfeld thought Din was hot you cannot convince me otherwise okay, Spoilers, Spoilers for Seasons 2 Episode 7 "The Believer", rated T for some noncanon like cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28122906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetloot/pseuds/Sweetloot
Summary: Mayfeld saw Mando's face and had oncedroppedthe man'skid.How was Mayfeld even stillalive?
Relationships: Din Djarin & Migs Mayfeld
Comments: 11
Kudos: 310





	We All Have to Sleep at Night

He’d _dropped_ the Mandalorian’s _kid_.

Mayfeld placed his head in his hands, wondering at how he even still _had_ hands.

He groaned.

_How was Mayfeld even still **alive**?_

Must be a cruel joke from the universe. 

He had been an imperial sharpshooter, surviving for years where others survived months. He had been a field operative, survived being on Burnin Konn during _Operation **fucking** Cinder_ while some five to ten thousand people died around him, his entire team gone, one after the other. It wasn’t like Burning Konn had been an idyllic planet to begin with, years of mining had left the surface near uninhabitable, but Palpatine’s damn contingency plan hadn’t spared the half-dead planet, instead hastening her death by changing her atmosphere. Where once a thunderstorm would have been a blessing, Palpatine had ensured that Mayfeld could never sleep through one again. The crack of lightning still made Mayfeld’s blood run cold, rain and wind that lasted too long put him on edge.

He’d traded Imperial life for a life on the run. He was a mercenary, a wanted man from the New Republic, probably from the Empire too if they found it in them to give more of a shit about him now than they did when he was serving under them. Hopeful the refinery explosion wouldn’t be traced back to him...

He was so _tired_. He hadn’t made it very far after Mando and Marshal Dune “killed” him. He’d crested past the top of a hill, found a decent boulder, and collapsed onto it. 

It didn’t take long to hear the rev of an engine, a ship that was decidedly _not_ the one Mando had the last time he had seen ~~betrayed~~ Mando, zipping off into orbit. He hadn’t asked about Mando’s old ship, too busy dodging death glares after his “volatile” comment towards Marshall Dune.

He rubbed his hands over his face.

Was he suicidal? He had to be. The number of times his big fat mouth had nearly got his head blown off was only slightly less than the number of times the same mouth had saved his ass.

He was lucky that today ended up being one of those latter types of situations.

He’s not sure exactly what had happened to Mando back there, but the guy under the helmet acted nothing like the Mando who was like a one man army, tearing through droids and troopers like it was _nothing_.

If he’d not just spoken to Mando he wouldn’t have believed the man at the terminal and the one under the helmet were one in the same.

Mayfeld had meant to stand watch at the entry, scanning for anyone that might catch on to what they were doing. He had meant to keep his back to the room, to keep his face from his former superior officer’s view, let Mando do what he had to do, then get the hell out of there. The longer they were there, the more chance there was that Valin Hess would see him.

Did he really think Valin Hess, the same guy that didn’t blink at the order to kill an entire planet, his own troops included, would recognize a single sharp shooter? No, not really. The likelihood of that was about as high as Hess coming over and asking about his health (physically? Fine. Mentally? Fucked, thanks for asking). Hess didn’t give an iota of Bantha crap about the people under his charge. He wouldn’t remember Mayfeld.

But Mayfeld remembered him. The instant he saw the man, a strange sort of cold fire went through him. It was like a waking nightmare. There, sitting like he didn’t have a care in the world, was one of the men responsible for the worst day of his life. His blood wanted to freeze and boil at the same time. He was furious, but he couldn’t face the man. No, he couldn’t, because if he did, he’d put a blaster right between the man’s eyes and fire.

Mayfeld might be reckless, but he wasn’t suicidal. If the troopers didn’t kill them, then Mando would if Mayfeld cost him the only chance he had at finding his kid.

So he refused to go. They would have to find another way to find the kid. This plan was screwed, better to leave now on their own two feet than in a body bag.

But Mando wouldn’t have it. He needed the coordinates to find his kid.

He did _not_ have the time to explain why letting Mayfeld step into that room was a very, _very_ bad idea. He already noticed they were getting a few stares and it wouldn’t be long before someone questioned them. Mayfeld could talk a sweet game but he could not pull a chain code that wasn’t tarnished out of his ass.

He didn’t think Mando would take the data stick, not after Mayfeld told him it would scan his face. That guy acted like a bride before her wedding day. He’d never show his face, especially not to the Empire.

But Mayfeld was wrong. Mando went towards the terminal and it was almost too painful to watch. The guy was clearly nervous about what he was about to do. Mayfeld didn’t think the guy _could_ look nervous, but there it was. Mayfeld was silently hoping that the terminal would be happy with the helmet, just to get the guy to stop acting so damn twitchy. Mando was getting a few looks that were lasting just a fraction too long and it was making Mayfeld nervous. His hand twitched for his blaster even though he knew it would only make things worse. He just had to hope Mando’s nerves wouldn’t get them busted.

The error message blared across the mess hall and Mayfeld was preparing to run. They only had ten seconds before it would trigger a warning and they would be swarmed with troopers. They were so screwed.

Then Mando removed his helmet.

To say Mayfeld was shocked was an understatement. He couldn’t help but watch the stranger. He was nothing like Mando. Mayfeld didn’t really have any real expectations for what was under the helmet, though he had once joked that he must be a Gungan to want to keep the helmet on all the time. He hadn’t expected soft looking hair, brown and a little long and wavy. He had maybe thought the guy would have a buzz cut, short and uniformly military, devoid of personality or individuality. 

He looked...soft.

He realized he was staring and turned away, trying to look like he hadn’t been transfixed by the back of the guy’s head.

_Calm down, stay cool, don’t look suspicious._

He was doing a pretty good job not looking at Mando, leaning casually against the wall like he belonged there. That is, until he heard a voice straight out of his nightmares.

“Trooper!”

_Fuck._

“Hey, Trooper.”

Mayfeld hoped that no one caught the way his head whipped around like it was on a swivel. The way he was staring could in no way be confused with subtle. 

Valin Hess was walking up to a helmetless Mando.

Mayfeld was just silently crapping his pants, don’t mind him. _Why?_ Why did it have to Valin Hess? Why was this his life? Maybe, just maybe, Mando could talk his way out of this, then they could both get out of there and Mayfeld could go back to digging around in the scrap yards and pretending like none of this had ever happened.

“Pay attention when a superior addresses you.” Hess said, and Mayfeld could hear the sneer in his words. “What’s your designation?”

_Say something Mando, **anything**._

“Transport Crew.”

Mayfeld suppressed a groan. _Anything but that! He needed a TK number, not just stating his station. Did this man know nothing?_

Mayfeld hesitated. Should he run? He could get out of there, let fate shit out whatever it wanted to give Mando and he could escape, maybe cause a distraction so Mando’s crew didn’t catch him leaving. 

He took one look at the utterly open, slightly confused, barely controlled terror in Mando’s face and knew that Mayfeld was screwed. He couldn’t leave Mando behind, not again. 

He needed to sleep at night, after all. 

Mayfeld didn’t bother listening to the rest of the trainwreck of a conversation that Mando was trying to hold, just strode through the mess hall like he owned the place and tried to fit back into the shoes of a respectful, subordinate trooper. 

They were probably going to die but, dammit, Mayfeld was going to at least have a say in it. 

He walked up to Valin Hess like this was the most common thing in the world, lied through his teeth, and hoped to whatever controlled his crappy existence that Mando would _pull it together_. 

Hess asked, loudly, what Mando’s name was. Mando stared back like the man was speaking Wookiee. 

Great, just perfect. Looks like Mayfeld was going to have to do all of the heavy lifting in this conversation. 

They really should have just left him in prison. 

Mayfeld got a little closer to Mando, set his hand very gently on Mando’s back like he’d spook him, caught a glimpse of the man’s face, and said the first thing that came to mind. 

They called him ‘Brown Eyes.’ 

Mando tried to plaster on a small grin and nodded his head like it was the most normal, not at all kind of weirdly flirtatious nickname he’d ever heard. 

The best lies held a grain of truth so Mando was now ‘Brown Eyes’ and if Mando had a problem with it then he could bring it up with him later if they weren’t shot to death. 

Mayfeld wished he’d said anything, _anything_ else, though when Hess placed a hand on each of their shoulders, leaned in and looked at Mando’s bare face, and asked _Brown Eyes_ in a way that was not a question to have a drink with him. 

Mayfeld wasn’t even being addressed and he still felt the slippery way the name rolled off Hess' tongue, like an unwanted caress. It was clear that Hess had been drinking earlier, the Spotchka already on the table. The other person that Hess had been drinking with was gone, probably happy to have escaped Hess’ personal attention. 

They weren’t so lucky. 

And neither was Valin Hess. 

Somehow they had survived, Hess was dead by Mayfeld’s hand, and the whole refinery was up in flames. 

He had told Mando that they all needed to sleep at night, but Mayfeld wasn’t sure he was going to be sleeping well anytime soon. 

Mayfeld was now the only person in the universe that knew what Mando looked like. 

Life certainly had a way of dragging him through the shit, didn’t it? 

He would trade just about anything to not have that knowledge now. It was a ticking time bomb. He couldn’t believe he had ever wanted to know, though he had thought he had good reason to, at the time. 

All that prodding he’d done on Mando’s ship wasn’t just to get a rise out of him, wasn’t just to sate his curiosity - well, it was, partially. He had been fooling around, using the sort of antagonistic humor he was used to, the type of ribbing he’d done with his own squad. It was a dangerous sort of humor but he could deal with the fallout. 

But he wasn’t just joking, not really. Mayfeld didn’t care for the unknown. It put him on edge. He liked knowing who he was talking to, liked knowing who held the thin line between him and destruction. Mando was like a stone wall, rigid in manner and just as difficult to talk to. Mayfeld used to put his faith in the unknown, following orders with only the assurance that it was for the “greater good.” His questions had been stonewalled then too. A good trooper never asks too many questions, everything happens for a reason, and those reasons were ones he didn’t need to know to do his job. 

Look where that got him. 

So, yeah. Blindly following the orders of a nameless, faceless man no longer sat well with Mayfeld, and Mando seemed like the type of nameless, faceless man to follow orders without so much as a sideways glance. 

He knew better now. There was a man under that armor, a man that, despite having Mando’s build, his quiet, stoic nature, was like a wounded animal and Mayfeld now had that animal’s beating heart in his hands. It was like dangling a piece of meat over a Sarlacc pit and expecting not to get eaten. 

This would come back to bite him. 

But, if Marshal Dune was to be trusted, and his not having a bullet in his brain was a testament to that, then his chain code was dead, and so was Inmate 34667. As far as anyone was concerned, he was nothing more than a charred corpse. 

He hoped Mando was satisfied with that, but he wouldn’t bet his life on it. 

_Crack_

Mayfeld’s shot his head up so fast he nearly got whiplash. His neck twinged, screaming at the sudden movement. He strained his ears to listen. 

_Hiss, crack_

He let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. He breathed in and something putrid caught in his lungs. He coughed. 

It was just the refinery, something else must have caught fire. Something that gave off a rancid smell, like burning tires and singed hair. It was unlikely anyone was going to come by to stop the flames, the local inhabitants too busy celebrating the Empire’s destruction, or mourning their dead, to care. It was fortunate the refinery was on top of a waterfall, else the entire forest he was sitting in would have been in flames. 

Mando and his crew had left about an hour ago. Honestly, it felt like he had aged ten lifetimes since Marshal Dune had swooped in and gotten him out of the Karthon Chop Fields. 

He had thought during his time in the Fields he would have gotten used to the smell of hot steel, rust, and fire, of the smell of burning rubber, crushed concrete, and the occasional burnt flesh of a welding accident or from the jab of a taser. He had thought he had gotten used to all of that on Burning Kohnn too, but when the wind shifted, the smoke now blowing in his direction, he gagged. 

He couldn’t stay here. The sun was starting to set and he needed to get further from the refinery. 

He trudged through the forest, dodging tree limbs and jumping fallen logs. He’d have to make camp for the night. 

He’d managed to make crappy lean-to out of sticks in the waning light. Had he had more time and resources, he could have made something better. He’d roughed it plenty of times working as a mercenary, holing up on some backwater planet, waiting to eliminate his target. 

Morak seemed a hospitable enough planet, he’d certainly been on worse, but he was entirely unfamiliar with it. How long were its days? Would the sun rise again in nine hours? Twelve? He’d heard that on some planets, they had places where the sun set and wasn’t seen again for months. 

He hoped Morak wasn’t one of those planets. 

He gathered up dry sticks and leaves, made a clearing, and worked on starting a fire. He was thankful to the other Mandalorian - what had Mando called him? Fett? Yeah, Fett. He had given Mayfeld the clothes he wore, it wasn’t like he had anything other than orange jumpsuits in the Fields. In one of the pockets of the jacket he had found a small box. It held a piece of flint and steel, a small sewing kit, and a small switchblade. He didn’t feel bad about having the items. Fett must have known it was in the jacket, he was the one who had given it to Mayfeld in the first place. Funnily enough, he didn’t remember feeling the kit in his pocket before his mission with Mando, but he had found it later, after he had stripped the trooper's armor off of him. 

Other than the small kit, the clothes on his back, and the blaster he’d kept from the trooper, he had nothing else. 

He fiddled with the flint, striking a few times without success, then caught a spark. 

The smell of the refinery fire was gone, replaced with the sweet burning smell of unknown trees and plants. 

Mayfeld sighed, dragging a dead log near the fire. It was starting to get a bit chilly, he hoped that this planet was leaving a cooler season rather than entering it. He sat on the log, warming the exposed parts of his hands not covered by gloves. There were many bad things about fire, Mayfeld thought, but one of the worst parts was how flames had a way of drawing the eye and loosening the mind. He couldn’t help but think about earlier today, even though he’d swore that he’d forget it. 

To say that he had been surprised when Mando had walked down that ramp would have been an understatement. All of the color had drained from Mayfeld’s face, his eyes unable to look into Mando’s helmet, choosing instead to look at his feet. He really thought that Mando was going to kill him. He hadn't killed him on that New Republic vessel, which Mayfeld still couldn’t quite believe, but maybe the thought that he had let Mayfeld live had been itching at him, some unfinished business he had to take care of lest Mayfeld come back to bite him in the ass. 

Well, if he wasn’t on Mando’s kill radar before, he sure as shit was now. 

_He was a dead man breathing._

Sure, they’d let him go, but Mayfeld was no idiot. One day, somehow or another, this was going to catch up to him. 

Mayfeld needed to figure out a way off this planet, and soon. He needed to go to ground, make sure that Mando never found him again. 

Even if all of Mayfeld’s past transgressions had been forgiven, and he was sure that they _hadn’t_ , being the only living being in the universe to be able to ID Mando was like painting a target on his back. 

Mayfeld stood up, stretched, and went about making a few snares out of vines. If he was lucky, he’d have something small trapped by morning and he’d be able to eat. It was too dark to go hunting now. 

Traps set, Mayfeld reluctantly put out his fire. Best not to attract any unwanted attention. He curled up under his meager shelter, hoped he wouldn’t get bit by anything while he slept, and pillowed his head on his arms, his blaster sitting a finger’s length away from his hand. 

Mayfeld slept, it wasn’t peaceful, but he slept. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Comments are greatly appreciated, thank you.


End file.
